time to plant your tomatoes, and go fishing. I haven't done either one, yet. It's not that I'm lazy. It's not that I don't dream of a late July BLT coming out of my garden. I haven't lost the desire for a nice fresh piece of filleted fish. It's just... well, it's just too damn cold.

The aisles of the store where I shop for bread and milk have looked like a greenhouse these last few weeks as the owner has had to bring in every plant that can't take chilly night air. We have pretty much shot by pansy time. It should be time for impatiens and dahlias, but I'm thinking of planting ornamental cabbage if Country Gardens has some.

It's June and not all of the tree leaves have come out yet. And sadly the many that have sprung their leaves are being noshed as fast as they can unfold by caterpillars that were moths flying around during Christmas strolls.

What the heck is up with that?

Have we done something wrong? Has the excavation for the Sagamore Flyover disturbed some ancient Indian burial ground, commencing some sort of aboriginal storm dance preceded by an infestation of leaf rollers? Please forgive us, oh Great One, we are truly sorry. We must repent before the swarms of golf-ball size mosquitos descends upon us with a thirst to chug-a-lug pints of our blood like last call on St. Patrick's Day.

As Mark Twain, or was that Mark Rosenthal, once said: if you don't like the weather in New England, wait a minute. This past holiday weekend's forecast seemed to have every meteorologist baffled as the Almighty turned the switch from winter to summer instantly for three days. And then, like some old skinflint curmudgeon guarding the thermostat in fear of the heating bill going through the roof, she just as quickly turned it off come Tuesday morning.

Ah, the summer of Ought Five, I remember it well. It was from 11:07 a.m. to 12:45 p.m. on May 30.

As far as the fishing goes, the story being told around the bait shops is that the fish are here, but only the die-hard angler wishes to wade into water below 50 degrees to try to catch one. My rod and reel sit next to my bag of golf clubs that is covered by the down parka that I wore to a baseball game two weeks ago.

My writer friend Tom Fahey, who would much rather be tying fishing lures than being tied to his keyboard trying to meet a deadline for a book about fishing, tells me that a friend of a friend caught a lunker of a striper off Bone Hill Road the other night. I know this has all the making of a fish tale. This rumorfish supposedly was 35 inches long and tipped the scale at 45 pounds, or was that 45 inches long and 35 pounds? Either way, that's one big fish.

It reminded me of a fishing story that is now about 40 years old. As kids we used to hang out at Bone Hill Beach most summer nights. We fished a little, but mostly it was just an excuse to get away from the parents house and smoke cigarettes. Thinking back now, a pack of Winstons kept in a tackle box for a week or two doesn't really taste good like a cigarette should.

Anyway, there was an old guy who would come down every night the tide was right. Every village had one of these gents, it seemed. Methinks this guy liked to drink a wee. Actually, we hardly ever saw him sober. He'd come down to the shore at dusk with his pole, a lawn chair, a brown bag with a six-pack of beer, and a pint of Seagram's Seven, just in case the fish weren't biting. I think he hoped the fish weren't biting.

Well, one night, this guy (for the sake of propriety we'll call him Bud) came down and set up his chair, sat down, opened a brew, took a sip, opened his bottle, took another sip, lit up a cigarette and put in his mouth, and then cast his line out.

Bud sat there. Ten minutes later, he still sat there, and ten minutes later he still sat. Now anybody who knows Barnstable Harbor near Bone Hill Beach knows the tide comes in at a good clip. It's no Bay of Fundy, but it will come right in.

Bud sat as the water covered his feet, and then his shins, and then it was finally up to the middle of his chest. I mean to tell you that the rod and reel were in his hands that were below the water.

Now this is where fish stories get fuzzy, but this is the God's honest truth. Suddenly a fish hit Bud's line and pulled him out of his chair and dragged him as if he was about to go waterskiing.

Bud finally got his feet underneath himself and stood and reeled in a keeper. We all laughed like hell, and so did he.